


sweetest ruin

by neroh



Series: in sin + error [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Banter, Bottom Illya, Character Study, Dirty Talk, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Top Napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 01:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11659125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: He failed so miserably from the moment he so much aslookedat the likes of Napoleon Solo, but then again, if failure meansthis, Illya is completely fine with it.





	sweetest ruin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Matt for the beta and you're welcome for the boner.
> 
> This takes place during [Contigency](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9127558/chapters/20743108), but can be read as a stand alone fic.

Napoleon Solo is the most obnoxious human being Illya has ever come across and he never lets a day go by without telling him so.

He's fussy, pompous, absolutely ridiculous, stubborn, and spends most of his time (and, as Illya suspects, money) on grooming himself. He's loud and never follows orders or the plans that Gaby painstakingly makes, combs through with a fine tooth comb, and _tells_ him that under no circumstances not to improvise to which he improvises and ends up getting kidnapped, tortured, or nearly killed.

(There was that one mission in Puerto Rico where he managed to do all three which Napoleon outright refuses to talk about.)

He always smiles. _Always_ and without fail.

Even when Illya insults him, which he does quite regularly, he can count on that blinding, painfully _perfect_ smile to pull at Napoleon’s generous mouth and curl upwards into a smirk. It lights up his eyes, warming them along with Illya’s heart hidden inside his body.

“Peril,” he’ll drawl, pronouncing that god awful nickname with a seductive purr, “you say the sweetest things.”

He wants to punch him in his stupidly handsome face. Or kiss him senseless. Or both.

Probably both.

Illya spares Napoleon a secretive glance once he’s rolled his eyes while muttering a colorful slew of insults in Russian and remembers what it’s like to have him spilling onto Illya’s tongue. Or have Napoleon buried deep inside of him, thrusting at just the right angle to strike his prostate and leave Illya dizzy with desire. Or have his unfairly graceful hands pinning his wrists on either side of Illya’s head as Napoleon fucks him.

Fucks him like they’re seconds from death. _Fucks him so hard that Illya can barely breathe._ Fucks him even harder when Illya cums around his cock until Illya is oversensitive and whimpering and Napoleon moans Peril into his ear as he spills inside of him.

So it’s both. _Definitely_ both.

Napoleon spends his money like a fool. Designer clothing that shows off his broad chest and trim waist and will most certainly meet its end by bullet singes, a knife’s blade, smoke, or Illya’s own bare hands when he rips it from Napoleon’s body.

Grooming products from fancy, sans serif logoed establishments that boast of all natural ingredients and are not tested on animals. Lotions and pomades that smell too strong inside of the stores from which they came, but curl teasingly under Illya’s nose when Napoleon stands next to him.

And the shoes; the absurd amount of them that end up scuffed and ruined. Then there are the cufflinks he always loses and the tight black boxer briefs that cling to his perfect body, and _no one else better see or Illya will have to kill them_.

Someone must be punishing him by forcing Illya to be in Napoleon’s company. He annoys Illya when he speaks, when he cooks and lectures him on using the proper pots or pans, or gives his unsolicited thoughts on Classical antiquity because _who_ would even know such things?

Napoleon makes Illya want to tear things apart with his bare hands or scream until he just shuts the fuck up! _Bog zatknis!_ He never stops talking; even when he’s bloodied and bruised and barely conscious, Napoleon’s voice is a constant annoyance in Illya’s ear.

Until it isn’t and he misses the sound of it.

Especially on the nights where neither of them seeks each other and they're separated by hotel floors and keycard protected rooms.

On those nights it’s too quiet and Illya can’t sleep. He lies in an unfamiliar bed that smells nothing like the sandalwood and honey of Napoleon’s cologne, staring at the ceiling until he becomes drowsy. Those nights he frets over having _feelings_ for Napoleon because feelings are dangerous for the line of work they’re in.

They are an inconvenience and lead to disaster.

His mama is a perfect example; she fell in love with his father and Illya was born of that union. Eight years later the consequences came for them, spilling his parents’ blood while he was sent to an orphanage to fend for himself.

On the nights a faded image of his mama’s face floats behind Illya’s closed eyes, he goes to Napoleon’s room and steps inside when Napoleon opens the door. They stare at each other until one of them steps forward and their lips are pressed together. Napoleon’s hands are tangled in his hair as he leads Illya towards the bedroom.

Napoleon helps Illya forget. His hands and mouth travel over Illya’s skin, finding the most sensitive parts of himself. He licks Illya open until his hole is wet with saliva and loose enough for one of Napoleon’s fingers. He scissors him, stretches him while Illya tangles himself in the sheets and can’t speak because he might fall apart.

In the dark Illya makes out Napoleon’s mostly blue eyes save for the smudge of dark brown in the left and thinks of how unfair it is that Napoleon Solo can make a _mutation_ look so unbelievably _krasivyy_. They watch his reactions with intense concentration, never leaving Illya’s face until he becomes so embarrassed by the attention, Illya throws an arm over him to hide.

“Peril,” Napoleon whispers huskily. He catches Illya by the wrist and pries his arm away from his face and they are _staring_ at each other. “Look at me, Peril.”

He gnashed his teeth together as another finger slips inside of him. “You are vain, Cowboy,” Illya grunts, fisting the sheets. “Vain and a terrible spy.”

“Uh huh,” Napoleon replies, humoring him. He leans forward, driving his fingers deeper. “Such a terrible spy. I don’t know how you put up with me.”

Illya cries out at the spark of pleasure shooting up his spine and Napoleon’s continuous assault on his prostate until his back is arched, his head is thrown back, and his cock is so wet, so hard that he thinks he might explode. “Cowboy,” he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut and hips rocking onto his lover’s fingers.

If he could get them just a bit deeper, just a bit harder…

“Yes?” Napoleon says. The _ublyudok’s_ still watching him; Illya feels it. Dampness puffs against Illya’s inseam, followed by the sharp edge of teeth. “Something you need?”

 _I need you_ , a voice shouts and presses itself against his tongue. Illya swallows it back. “You are trying to kill me,” he says instead.

Napoleon’s rich laughter fills the room as he moves up Illya’s thigh. “No, no,” he chuckles, working a third finger into him. “I’m merely trying to get you to loosen up a bit.”

“Do not joke,” Illya growls, unappreciative of the pun.

Suddenly Napoleon is hovering over him, covering his body with his own, and looking Illya right in the eye. “Let go, Peril,” he gently commands and twists his fingers.

Illya cums between their stomachs, clenching and thrusting and begging Napoleon for more. _Please more_ because he _needs_ to feel Napoleon inside of him. He needs to be filled to the brink and held down while Napoleon utterly _ruins_ him. He wants to say he needs Napoleon more than he needs air and he just needs _him_.

“Shh,” Napoleon whispers while he pets Illya’s damp hair, brushing it off his sweaty forehead.

The blunt flare of his cockhead presses against Illya’s hole, slowly slipping inside until the ring of muscle gives and Napoleon slides in. Illya cries out, spreads his legs wider for Napoleon to take him, and grabs the sheets so hard that he might tear them.

“Peril,” Napoleon murmurs. He’s buried to the hilt now, balls brushing against Illya’s skin and oh god, he needs to move. “I have you.”

Illya blinks, his mind still trying to comprehend words when Napoleon begins to move. He thinks of what his FSB instructors told him about what it meant to serve their motherland. The honor of living and dying for Russia, the land that nurtured them and thrived in their bones.

He thinks of Napoleon and the taste of himself on his lover’s tongue when they kiss. Illya pulls Napoleon closer, hooking his legs under his ass and pushing him deeper into himself. The vibration of Napoleon’s chuckle fills him, warms him, and he moans into it, unashamed. “ _Sil’neye_ ,” he says. “ _Pozhaluysta,_ Cowboy.”

Napoleon growls in understanding, shoving Illya’s legs up and over his arms. The next thrust burns through him and he digs his nails into Napoleon’s skin.

“You look so good like this, Peril,” Napoleon rasps against his lips. “So fucking good when you’re on my cock, do you know that?” He drives in deeper, harder to hear Illya come apart. “Like you were made to ride it…”

Illya pulls him by his hair, biting his way into Napoleon's mouth. "Less talking, Cowboy, and more _fucking_.”

Napoleon snorts back his laughter. "More fucking, you say?" he questions as he shoves Illya's legs towards his chest and holds them there. Pulling out until only his head remains inside of Illya's body, Napoleon quirks a brow while Illya whines. "I can do that, Peril."

“Then _do it_!” he snaps back through gritted teeth.

Illya should know better than to ask Napoleon for what he wants.

He really should because Napoleon Solo loves to give it in spades.

The first thrust drives the breath from his lungs and the second finds his prostate. He throws his head back against the pillows, baring his neck to Napoleon’s nimble mouth.

Napoleon fucks him until Illya’s cock is hard and aching and he can’t see straight. He doesn’t care if the neighboring rooms can hear him or there will be a suspicious bruise at the base of his throat. He just needs this, he needs it so badly.

“Let go,” Napoleon whispers, taking Illya in hand. His lips brush over his ear lobe. “I have you, Peril.”

He barely lasts through two quick strokes before Illya’s clenching hard and cumming sloppily on his stomach and Napoleon’s fist. Sex with Napoleon leaves Illya feeling like he’s been torn in half and painstakingly put back together again by this idiotic man.

Hot puffs of air meet his sweaty skin as Napoleon grunts into his shoulder. He’s close; Illya knows this from the erratic thrust of Napoleon’s hips and the aborted sounds he makes.

“Fuck Peril,” the other man moans, low and hoarse. He pulls at Illya, tilting his lower body to the precise angle Napoleon needs to find his own pleasure. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good. So fucking tight on my cock…”

Illya snorts quietly as he thinks that not even sex can shut Napoleon Solo up.

A few more gasps and hard thrust, Napoleon cums. His body goes taut under Illya's hands, trembling as the warmth of his spill floods Illya's hole. They lie there remembering how to breathe, how to move, how to speak while the noises of the city they're in carrying on around them.

Somewhere on their floor, a group of drunk tourist laugh all the way to their room and slam the door much harder than necessary. A car horn honks and a cat yowls.

“Let me get something to clean you up,” Napoleon finally says. He carefully withdraws his softening length from Illya, taking great care not to cause him pain. “Stay put.”

He does and watches as Napoleon struts towards the bathroom where he flicks the light on. Illya spies a sliver of his lover’s body through the crack of the door, admiring the strong muscles and golden skin covering them. The type of body that can manhandle the likes of Illya into submission and save the day.

Illya thinks back to Sergi Smirnov’s yacht, where he stumbled upon a man dripping with seawater and eyes so electric that he could have been a demigod. A man whose name he didn’t know and risked his own mission to save when Smirnov’s gun went off, taking a bullet meant for him.

He failed so miserably from the moment he so much as _looked_ at the likes of Napoleon Solo, but then again, if failure means _this_ , Illya is completely fine with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
